


La Vie en rose

by ifonlytreescoulddance



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Cooking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Marriage Proposal, Sakusa AKA secret softy who's both terrible with people and with words, Self-Insert, Short One Shot, Slow Dancing, Song: La Vie En Rose, a tiny bit of French but mostly irrelevant, idk just go and read it, recommend listening to it while reading, shorter than Hinata, the sort of lover who hates everyone else but you lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25432129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifonlytreescoulddance/pseuds/ifonlytreescoulddance
Summary: A regular, yet not-so-regular evening with Sakusa.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 74





	La Vie en rose

**Author's Note:**

> The end of the manga resurrected my fanfiction writing desires, so here's a first attempt after five years of nothing. Also, I'm no native speaker but I like to believe my undying love for the gift that is Sakusa Kiyoomi levels that out. You've been warned though.

When Y/n opens the door to the flat, the smell of fresh food on the stove washes over her like a wave. And just like that, a smile grows on her lips.

She leaves her shoes at the entrance and takes care in washing her hands and face to get rid of the dirt of Tokyo’s streets. The water's freezing - is the boiler broken? really, again? - but at least, she's wide awake now. Following the smell into the kitchen, she stops at the door when she gets a good look at her boyfriend.

Sakusa seems so… at ease. Only at home does he let his guard down like this, muscles relaxed under the old shirt while he’s occupied with the pots and pans in front of him. His black hair is still damp from the shower he must have taken earlier.

Y/n has always adored the mess of his curls; they remind her that despite his impeccable appearance, a very human form of disarray belongs to him. The urge to weave her fingers through them burns in her chest ever since she first fell in love.

One of her old CDs plays in the background, back from the time before they met. Internally, she cackles with glee. She _knew_ he liked ‘that sappy French stuff’.

While the memory of Edith Piaf caresses their ears, Y/n takes the last steps to him, where the fragrance of his shower gel brushes against her nose. “Il est entré dans mon cœur, une part de bonheur,” she sings softly in his ear, watches him get goosebumps. Her arms wrap around his chest. If she's going to get warmth into her body again, this might just be the most enjoyable way to do so.

Sakusa's voice is calm as ever. “You’re too early. The food’s not ready yet.”

She snorts when he melts against her anyway. “Glad to see you, too. There was unusually little traffic.”

“Well, they opened the new bridge to the east, that should calm things down around here,” he mumbles but his mind is clearly somewhere else. He turns in her grasp and plants a kiss on her forehead.

“Thanks for cooking.” Intertwining his calloused hands with hers, she sways in time with the music. And he, this giant of a man who makes money by hitting things over a net with frightful force, plays along without a word of complaint. Someone's in a good mood today.

When the wrinkles around his eyes make an appearance, his whole face lights up. It does things to her heart that Y/N can’t put into words, makes it stumble and soar all at once.

As the last note fades away, Sakusa leads her into a lazy turn and her skirt flies around her legs in something resembling a crooked circle. The whole scene feels surreal, dreamy. Almost as if they were tipsy from too much champagne.

When she comes to a halt, his gaze is locked on her.

“What is it?”

“Will you marry me?” He sputters the words so fast that it takes her a second to register their meaning.

For a moment, all she can do is stare at the man before her. At the insecurity in his eyes. She knows that he doubts anyone would bear with his ticks and weird rituals and phobias. It’s one of these things that don’t vanish, even after years of living together.

And it’s true, their flat might be cleaner than some hospitals, they only touch after both ensured a minimal risk of germs and most of Y/n’s friends don’t understand why she stays with a guy who’s this _complicated_ and _rude_ and _unsocial_. She gets it.

But his hand in hers is warm right now and so are the early morning kisses before he leaves for practice and never, not once has he made her feel uncomfortable or weak or insignificant because despite his cold exterior, he cares. He cares with all his heart.

He remembers how she likes her tea and listens to her rambling about random topics; he tries to make things right after arguments where he was in the wrong, and he forgives when she's the one to make a mistake; he lets her know when he needs space to think; he pretends to have an important game coming up to get them out of family reunions; he vents about his teammates and when she makes light-hearted fun of him, he just rolls his eyes and smiles guiltily.

He tells her he loves her without the use of a single word.

So Y/n simply nods. There's not much to contemplate – years and difficulties have passed and he was the one constant amidst all changes. When her fingers find their way to his soft curls and their lips meet, she can’t help but think that this is _home_.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if my use of words seems strange since school = Oxford English, while Internet = heavy American influence. Feel free to point out mistakes. Any sort of feedback is appreciated :)


End file.
